


Struggle

by Sue_Snell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Bondage, Control, Dirty Talk, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sue_Snell/pseuds/Sue_Snell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPN kinkmeme fill. Prompt (truncated): Metatron curses the brothers. He'll let Cas have the cure if Cas submits to him. If Cas kills him, the brothers will die soon after. So Cas has no choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struggle

**Author's Note:**

> Another kinkmeme-to-AO3 transfer. [This](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/105174.html?thread=39862998#t39862998) is the full prompt. Timeline-wise I see this taking place about when I wrote it, somewhere in the front half of S11.
> 
> Warnings: Rape and some (albeit casual/spiteful/manipulative) suicidal ideation from Metatron.

It started with the headaches.

They were bad, but not migraine bad. The brothers didn’t even mention them, just swallowed some ibuprofen and turned a few more lights off around the bunker. Hours later the pain hadn’t relented, but they still didn’t say anything, just got a little more snippy with each other, with Cas.

The next phase was a lot less subtle, and Cas began to worry.

He was familiar with the concept of vomiting, had even endured the experience himself once or twice when he was human, but something seemed off about the simultaneous retching emanating from the two bathrooms the boys had fled to. The episodes seemed a bit too intense, a bit too lengthy, and, of course, suspiciously simultaneous. He waited for a good moment to voice his concern in the midst of running back and forth between the two rooms, bringing water, ice chips, a rubber band for Sam’s hair.

“It’s just food poisoning, Cas,” Dean assured him between heavy breaths once he spoke up, “Must be that place we ate at on the way back from the case, what’s it called...?”

“Andy’s,” Cas recalled.

Dean grunted.

“There you go. ‘sall Andy’s fault, whoever the hell he is...” He gripped the sides of the toilet bowl with sudden urgency and Cas left him to it, having learned this afternoon that Dean didn’t appreciate him sticking around for such moments. He slipped into the bathroom across the hall and repeated his worries to Sam.

“It’s just something that happens sometimes,” Sam murmured in reply, resting his sweaty forehead on cool porcelain, “We’ve got a whole blacklist of diners we’ll never touch again because of stuff like this.” It’d be a shame to add Andy’s, especially since they’d hit that joint hundreds of time on the way home before with no problem. Come to think of it, Sam couldn’t even remember the last time food poisoning hit him _and_ Dean this hard; it wasn’t like they tended to order the same thing.

“I see...” said Cas, unconvinced.

“We’ll be fine,” said Sam, finding the weak, trembling sound of his own voice less than reassuring.

By the time the puking stopped the brothers were ready to admit something was seriously wrong, for all the good it did them. They were dizzy and light-headed and inexplicably achy all over, barely able to walk without Cas’s help. More alarmingly, any attempt to rehydrate—hell, any attempt to so much as think of eating or drinking—ended in another trip to the bathroom, thick strands of saliva making their escape from mouths that felt dangerously dry.

The Men of Letters had an artifact, just a simple red rock about the size of a baseball, which glowed if touched by someone under a curse. It’d been a while since they last used it; when Dean had the Mark of Cain the thing would light up like Christmas every time he got within five feet of it. They sought it out to see if it was time to hit the books or the hospital. The glow was bright enough to hurt their eyes.

Not long after this, Cas got the text.

Both Sam and Dean saw it happen from where they slouched, exhausted, on a couch, lore books open in their laps. They heard the buzz, saw him take out his phone, read for a long moment, and frown deeply. And yet he had the audacity to pretend at first nothing happened. He simply sauntered into the next room to grab his coat, then headed for the front door as if abandoning the brothers at a time like this was the natural thing to do.

“I need to go,” he said curtly, “I’ll be back soon.”

“The hell?” Sam muttered.

“Hey!” Dean shouted hoarsely.

“What?” Cas barked back.

“You freaking serious right now? What the hell was that text? Where are you going?”

When Cas took too long to answer, Sam added, “Is it something to do with this? Talk to us, man.”

“...there’s not enough time to explain.”

“So that’s a yes?” said Sam.

“Then I’m coming with you,” said Dean, standing.

“Dean, you can’t.”

At first Dean thought Cas was telling him no—and screw that—but as he doubled over in pain and sank back onto the couch he realized Cas had merely stated a fact. He and Sam weren’t going anywhere until this damn curse got lifted. Too bad none of the research they’d managed to do so far had turned up anything like this.

“I’ll be back soon,” Cas repeated.

“You’d better,” Dean grumbled, clutching his spinning head.

Without another word Cas was out the door.

“Hope he knows what he’s doing...” said Sam as Dean stumbled—halfway crawling—to the nearest bathroom to dry heave some more. Dean hoped so too, because the curse was getting worse: He got stuck in there for an hour, heaving phlegm, then bile, then blood, convulsing over the toilet until it was a struggle to breathe.

* * *

“Do you really expect me to believe you?”

It was the first thing Castiel said to him upon arriving at his apartment, as if it was natural to pick up the conversation from where it left off hours ago with Metatron’s text.

“Exactly what are you calling into question?” He waved him inside; neither of them needed his neighbors eavesdropping on this conversation. “The fact I cast the curse or the fact I’m the only one who can lift it?” He doubted Cas had any real doubts about either of those facts: To prove he knew what he was talking about, he’d snapped a picture of the relevant page of the spellbook he’d used and sent it with the message. He didn’t worry that sending the instructions would end with him getting a taste of his own medicine because the spell required a human sacrifice. He knew Cas didn’t have the balls and the Winchesters would mutter “find another way” and wuss out too, assuming Cas even told them about the spell in the first place.

“I’m calling into question the part where you claim you _will_ lift the curse but only _after_ I give you the demon tablet.”

“Of course you are. You did bring it, though?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Cute poker face, but do _you_ really expect _me_ to believe you came all the way out here without the best piece of leverage you’ve got on me? Y’know, just in case? C’mon, let me see it.”

Cas fixed him with a glare.

“You know, every minute you spend stalling is another minute closer to warm, sticky doom for your boyfriends. And trust me, they’re feeling every second.”

With a heavy sigh, Cas reached inside his coat and pulled out the demon tablet, holding it up for Metatron to see.

“Atta boy.”

“Now lift the curse,” Cas demanded.

“That’s not how this works, Castiel. First give me the tablet.”

“No.”

“Why? Because you don’t trust me to keep my word?” Metatron rolled his eyes, “Please, _Ass_ tiel, I’m not stupid. We both know how hilariously short my life expectancy will be if I actually ‘gank’ your precious Winchesters. Do I look suicidal?” The question sounded rhetorical, but he stared Cas down until he realized an answer was expected.

“No?”

“Then look again,” Metatron snapped back with sudden venom, “Have you already forgotten where I was when we last met? Did you think I’d _improved_ since then? You think putting me in traction helped? I—”

“What are you saying?” Cas interrupted. Little patience, Metatron noted, and not much in the way of fear either. Time to get to the point before Cas decided he’d heard enough.

“What I’m saying is, it’s been a real struggle lately, I just don’t feel like I have much to lose, and it would be in your best interest to help me forget that for a while. Oh, I know you _think_ you’ve got enough time to beat a cure out of me, that you’re safe because I don’t want to die, that I wouldn’t chew my own tongue off or go jump off the roof, but guess what? You’ve got another think coming. _What I’m saying_ , Castiel, is you don’t get to argue with me today, and you don’t get to cop an attitude, because if you assume for one second I wouldn’t kill myself out of spite, I _will_ prove you wrong, got it?”

He’d practiced this speech a dozen times in preparation for today. Sometimes he really meant it, too.

For the first time in the conversation, Castiel met his eyes, squinting curiously.

“‘What’s the maddest thing a man can do...?’” he murmured.

Metatron licked his lips. Was Cas calling him mad or a liar?

“I’m not lying, Castiel,” he added, in case it would help.

Pity softened Cas’s gaze.

“I know.”

Good. Now to wipe that condescending look off his insufferable mug.

“Get on your knees.”

The pity faded, replaced by confusion.

“What?”

“On. Your. Knees. _Kneel_. Not sure how I can make it clearer. Have you already forgotten who’s calling the shots here? Shall I head upstairs?”

Cas shook his head and sank to his knees warily. Maybe the idea was finally beginning to penetrate his thick skull that Metatron wanted more than the demon tablet out of this.

“That’s better,” Metatron muttered. He walked up to Cas and pointed at the tablet. “Gimme that.”

Cas complied reluctantly, but without arguing.

“Stay.”

After stowing the tablet back under his mattress (He’d come up with somewhere safer later.) Metatron returned to his living room and was gratified to find Castiel right where he left him: On his knees and watching him, a delicious hint of nervousness creeping into his eyes.

“Are you going to lift the curse now?” he asked in a tone kept carefully neutral. Metatron chuckled.

“What do _you_ think?”

Cas didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, Castiel, and I thought I made it clear that I’m not in the mood to deal with your attitude problem.”

“I think... that because there is still time left, you have no reason to lift the curse immediately.”

“Very good!” This was going to be fun.

“But you do intend to lift it. If you truly intended to die you wouldn’t care about retrieving the demon tablet first.”

“Now, now, I think we’ve established by this point that it could still go either way. If _you_ truly believed I was bluffing you wouldn’t still be on your knees, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Cas admitted irritably.

Metatron smiled. Then, without any further fanfare, he unzipped his pants and started undoing his belt.

“What are you—why...?” Cas stammered hoarsely, but the look on his face told Metatron he didn’t need to explain. Cas slid one foot forward and started stand—he looked anxious, barely conscious of this movement—but hesitated when Metatron fixed him with a glare.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Cas blinked, then turned his eyes to the ground.

“Nowhere.” At last Metatron heard in his voice that note he’d been fishing for this whole time: Defeat. Resignation. He loved the sound so much he felt his dick twitch and hurried to shuck his pants and boxers.

“Best get back on your knees then,” he pointed out, as Cas was still suspended in a half-standing crouch. Cas nodded and shakily shuffled back into a kneeling position, shoulders hunched. Metatron _really_ liked this look on him.

Once he’d dropped his pants and boxers to the floor and kicked them out of the way, Cas glanced up and frowned at his half-nakedness.

“Is that...?”

“Hm? Oh, right, I almost forgot.”

The elaborate mark he’d drawn on his thigh in sharpie (though, if he understood the nature of the spell correctly, it’d never quite wash off) would be upside-down from Cas’s point of view, but he figured Cas recognized it anyway. He would’ve just seen it not too long ago, after all. It was the symbol used to mark the human sacrifice necessary for the curse he cast. He explained:

“Any spell worth casting once is worth casting twice, right? So I did. Of course the spell’s not done until the sacrifice’s heart stops beating, so you won’t have to worry about your boys catching this bug again, _unless_...”

“I understand,” said Cas, fists clenching.

“In case you got any funny ideas about things to do after I lift the curse.”

“Very wise.”

He took a step toward Cas and watched him instinctively lean back.

“Don’t know why you’re acting so surprised, by the way, like you really thought I’d only want the demon tablet out of this. Come on. We both know you’re not _that_ naïve. You knew what you were getting into.”

Cas had nothing to say this.

“Hey,” Metatron took another step toward him, “You could still say no if you really wanted to. It’d make me sad—and we know what _that_ leads to— _but_ you could.” With one more step he closed the distance between them, loomed over Cas, and carded his fingers through his hair, savoring the sensation of the angel lightly flinching at his touch. “But you don’t want to make me sad, do you?”

More silence.

“ _Do you?_ ” The hand in Cas’s hair clenched and twisted, forcing his head backwards at an awkward angle.

“No,” he whispered.

“What _do_ you want to do?”

“I... whatever it takes.”

“Meaning?”

“Whatever you wish?”

“Good answer, but I’m looking for something a little more specific.”

Cas’s gaze flickered to his hardening cock.

“...perform fellatio?” he mumbled, face pink and shining with sweat.

“Bingo! But really Cas, this isn’t the time for fifty-cent words. You want to suck my cock.” He eased his grip on Cas’s hair a little, since, after all, he’d need some room to maneuver. “Right?”

“...yes.”

“Say it.”

“I...” Cas’s shaking hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His eyes were on the wall behind Metatron, as if through sheer willpower he could simply stop perceiving his existence.

“Yes?” Metatron gave Cas’s hair a warning tug to let him know he wasn’t in a patient mood. And how could he be? He was harder than he’d ever been in his life.

“I want... to suck... your cock.” The crude words sounded heavy and strange on Cas’s tongue. It occurred to Metatron that he might be the only one who’d ever heard him say something like that, and boy, did he like that thought.

“Well, if you insist.”

Cas’s mouth was sloppy and awkward—inexperienced, clearly—but this whole scene was so damn sweet Metatron barely needed stimulation. He got to the edge so fast it was kind of embarrassing and barely pulled out in time to squirt right in Cas’s eye. He hadn’t planned it that way—not the _right_ in the eye part—but couldn’t pretend he wasn’t happy with how it turned out.

Cas let out a startled grunt of pain, reaching up reflexively to wipe Metatron’s sperm away.

“ _Hey_.” Metatron’s voice was the same stern tone you’d use if your cat jumped on the counter, and at the sound of it Cas froze. Metatron repressed a chortle. Castiel was legitimately _afraid_ of disappointing him, angering him. Pure biology was the only thing keeping him from popping another boner right then and there.

“Did I _say_ you could wipe that off?” Metatron asked. Dammit, he sounded too happy. He wanted to sound mad, _scary_ ; it’d really _work_ for this scene. Oh well, maybe next time.

Cas’s hand was still hovering halfway to his face, but after a second he slowly lowered it, murmuring, “My apologies.”

He actually _apologized_. Without prompting, even! Metatron bit back a squeal of delight and hoped like hell Cas’s voice hadn’t been too quiet for the camera to pick up. He considered making him repeat it louder but decided against it; that might tip Cas off, and Metatron wanted his... documentation to be a surprise.

“Fine, fine,” he said with play-graciousness, “Just make sure you don’t slip up like that again.”

He couldn’t repress a laugh at the look on Cas’s face. The poor bastard must have thought he was done.

“Yes, Castiel.” He reached for Cas’s face and used his thumb to brush his seed out of the angel’s reddening eye, only to smear it up into his hair. “ _Again_.”

* * *

Metatron _would_ lift the curse. Cas silently repeated this assurance to himself over and over, a mantra to occupy his mind lest it be consumed by... other things. Metatron would lift the curse. The Winchesters would live. He would return to them. When he did he would bemoan the loss of the demon tablet. Perhaps that would upset them, perhaps they’d want to fight to get it back, but surely they’d agree the demon tablet alone was a small price to pay for their very lives. Besides, the tablet had fallen into Metatron’s hands before and he’d accomplished nothing with it. Coming back without it would merely represent a return to a familiar and comfortable status quo. Yes, everything would be as it was before, once Metatron lifted the curse, and Metatron _would_ lift the curse. 

It would be better to focus on that future than to dwell in the present, where he’d been ordered to sit, completely naked, in a dentist’s chair (“I found it in a dumpster! Can you believe what people will just throw out?”) and allow Metatron to bind his wrists to the armrests with rope. A strange affectation. They both knew that would not be nearly enough to truly restrain him, and they both knew Metatron had no need to restrain him at all. They both knew that logically he had nothing more to fear from this position than any other pose Metatron could force him into for his entertainment, and yet...

Cas’s breath came in tight, shallow, huffs as cold sweat pooled in the small of his back. His arms tensed beneath the ropes and every fiber of his being screamed at him to break free, but with a resolve bordering on physical pain he held himself still, knowing it would do him no good to shed these bonds, that it may even make Metatron angry. Even with this in mind, he couldn’t stop himself twitching roughly when Metatron trailed his fingertips along his collarbone, almost a caress.

“Remember the last time I had you like this?” he said. With a laugh, he added, “Well, not _exactly_ like this, but...” His fingers found their way to a nipple and pinched, hard, eliciting another involuntary twitch. “You know what I mean.”

Of course he did. Metatron could only be referring to the time he took his grace, having him restrained in the same chair Naomi once used to ply her terrible art. It was a memory he’d been desperately trying to push from his mind since the moment he laid eyes on this chair, that awful sensation of physical helplessness that’d been so rare before he lost his grace. The irony of this reprise—how physically he was in no more danger than he’d be in if he’d stayed at the bunker, and yet he was helpless all the same—was not lost on him. Nor Metatron, he suspected.

He tweaked his other nipple and this time Cas remained still, tensing every muscle as much as he dared in an effort to bring his vessel fully under control. Metatron frowned and made a noise at the back of his throat, displeased with the lack of reaction.

“You should go ahead and struggle a little,” he mused, “Not enough to actually break free, mind, but it’ll make the scene hotter if you’re squirming.”

Cas closed his eyes, though he couldn’t tell himself why. Did some subconscious, defective sector of his vessel’s brain think that would somehow shut out Metatron’s mockery, somehow protect him from any of this?

“That wasn’t sarcasm, Castiel.”

His vessel tried to make some sort of noise—a whimper, perhaps? It felt almost like a laugh—but he clenched his jaw and forced it to die in his throat. Then he clumsily complied with Metatron’s command, pulling against his bonds until he felt a dangerous tension, then relenting a second, letting them go slack, then pulling again...

“Yes...” Metatron’s voice was husky, and though his eyes remained closed Cas knew he was hard again. Knew what was coming next when his stomach lurched at the feeling of the chair falling back, tilting into a fully horizontal position.

The one mercy was that, like last time, it didn’t take Metatron long to finish. In fact, it’d almost felt like it took him longer to start, how he’d had to awkwardly straddle the chair, heave Cas’s legs over his shoulders one at a time. The effort of keeping his legs perfectly still—for fear of harming Metatron and bringing their arrangement down in flames—while his arms still wriggled in a false bid for freedom was intense. It took so much focus he could almost ignore the rhythmic _pain!_ signals flaring through his vessel’s nerves in protest of the dry, rough, friction, the unwelcome fullness, the stretch it could not accommodate. He could almost forget to register the things Metatron kept whispering to him between heavy, panting, breaths:

“Not as tight as... I was expecting... _Ass_ tiel. Almost like you... were ready for me, huh? Bet you were... thinking ‘bout it... the whole drive down... Bet you couldn’t wait... you little...” And on and on. Just assemblages of syllables Metatron threw together because he was so fond of his own voice, nothing more.

When he felt him finish Cas did something stupid. He lost control of his vessel—only for a second, but still too long. He couldn’t help it; it was panic—no, a reflex, a _human_ reflex, this wretched vessel’s useless programming pairing with his angelic strength to undo him. One desperately twitching arm pulled harder against the rope than it was supposed to and freed itself, snapping the arm off the dentist chair with a sharp _crack!_ Cas gasped in shock, then tensed in dread, not daring to move a millimeter as Metatron slowly pulled out.

“What did I tell you about actually breaking free?” His voice was low, with no hint of the amused lilt that’d haunted Cas throughout this whole ordeal.

“I’msosorry.” His throat was so tight, what came through sounded more like whimpering than words. “I-I didn’t mean to, please, sosorry sosorryplease...” His tongue lost its grip on the words and they unraveled into incoherent babbling. His chest heaved, his shoulders shook, his eyes burned. He shuddered when he felt a warm thumb brush his cheek.

“Look at me.”

The dangerous note had gone away; Cas dared to hope Metatron was happy again, that his unforgivable error wouldn’t cost him everything after all. He pried his eyes open, blinking away a strange blurriness.

“Look,” Metatron repeated, looming over him and presenting his thumb for inspection. It was wet. With—Cas flinched when a warm drop rolled down from his face into his ear—tears. He had _wept_ for Metatron’s amusement. Perhaps his vessel—this ponderous lump of meat—really was defective. Perhaps sealing this awful deal was the only thing it was good for anymore; such indignity would be unacceptable in any other context.

“I never told you to cry,” said Metatron, grinning as he shrugged himself out from under Cas’s legs, “But I like your initiative. _Just_ about makes up for breaking my chair.”

Just about? A wretched sob crawled up his throat as he wondered what more would be required. He tried to repress the disgusting noise and failed, bitterly hoping that at least Metatron appreciated it.

“Chin up, now, Columbo.” Metatron began loosening the knots binding the arm that remained. “‘Just one more thing,’ and then I’m going to lift the curse, okay?”

“...you are?” As many times as he’d told himself it would come to pass, Cas had begun to doubt it.

“Yep.” Metatron tilted the chair back to its upright position, again making Cas’s stomach twist. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes again. “And I’ll _even_ let you run on home to your boyfriends. They’d come looking for you eventually, after all, and we don’t want any awkward moments, do we?”

Cas shook his head. He hated the cold, sticky sensation of tears and snot drying on his face—not to mention the semen still caked in his hair and eyebrow—but even with his arms now free he wouldn’t try wiping it away this time. He couldn’t afford to risk even the smallest gesture that might displease Metatron. Not now, when he was so close.

“That’s what I thought. Now look me in the eye say thank you.”

His first instinct was to question this command, but now was no time to argue.

“Thank you.”

He grimaced at how oddly sincere his voice sounded.

“Wow,” said Metatron, “I thought it was going to take some back and forth to get you to say it like you meant it. Funny, huh?”

Cas turned his eyes to the floor and said nothing. He’d only sounded... eager because he was anxious to be done here, nothing more. _He_ knew this; let Metatron assume whatever he wanted.

“Just sayin.’” Metatron shrugged and shuffled over to where he’d discarded his pants and underwear earlier, casually pulled them back on. Cas wondered if he was allowed to retrieve his own clothes yet, but was hesitant to ask.

Humming a cheerful tune to himself, Metatron picked up a pen and legal pad lying on his coffee table and drew a complex sigil. When he was done, he muttered a few words of Sumerian, the sigil glowed, and for a moment the air vibrated with a low buzzing noise that made Cas’s teeth itch. 

“Welp,” said Metatron once the sound had faded, “All done. It’ll take a few hours for the effects to fade completely, but they should be on their feet by the time you get back.” He looked to Cas with an exaggerated frown. “What are _you_ hanging around for, pillow talk? Get outta here.”

Cas levered himself out of the chair with an ease that surprised him—he’d expected to be unsteady on his feet—and collected his clothes. He started to put on his boxers, only for Metatron to shoot him a stern look and repeat, “Get _outta_ here.” Without a word he nodded, slipped out the door, and dressed himself in the chilly hallway of Metatron’s apartment complex. He felt a brief twinge of anxiety that some neighbor of Metatron’s might see him exposed like this, and he felt a rush of relief at the idea that at last it was all over and the Winchesters would live, but mostly he felt heavy, numb, and cold.

* * *

“Cas?” Sam whispered hopefully when he felt his phone buzz in his hand. It hurt to even move his fingers enough to key in his pin, but he bit his lip and powered through the pain. It wasn’t like there was any real avenue for relief anyway; _everything_ hurt now.

Now, it was a constant struggle to breathe, every bone and every muscle aching like he’d been hit by a truck. His ribs protested every inhale, and every exhale burned his raw throat. But hey, at least he _was_ still breathing, right? The latest round of puking had mercifully stopped a while ago and he and Dean were back where Cas had left them: Sprawled on the couch, waiting for the pain to stop. They’d given up attempting to research when the words on the pages started swimming before their eyes, shooting a threatening feeling to their stomachs. Sam sat with one foot propped up on the coffee table, optimistically keeping his knee in prime book-holding position in case he got a second wind. Dean meanwhile had slumped over sideways, leaning on the arm of the couch and closing his eyes in pursuit of sweet unconsciousness. He stirred at the sound of Sam’s phone.

When Sam unlocked his phone he found that it wasn’t a text from Cas. It was an email notification, a new message from some guy named... Sam would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t pretty sure the dizzying gesture would make him hurl again. Matt Reno? Really?

“What is it?” came Dean’s voice, a thin rasp.

“Email from Metatron.”

“Metatron? The hell does he want?”

“Subject line just says ‘Video.’ There’s an attachment, so...”

“So what, he’s sending us porn now?” Dean gave a wheezy laugh at his own joke, descending into weak coughs as he sat up and leaned in Sam’s direction. “I wanna see.” His head landed on Sam’s shoulder with a faint groan, too heavy to hold up on his own neck. The weight on his shoulder hurt, but pushing Dean off would hurt worse, so Sam tried to pretend he didn’t mind. He stabilized his phone against his knee so both of them could get a good view, then opened the email.

“Hello boys,” Sam read aloud.

“Think Crowley’ll sic copyright lawyers on him?” Dean muttered.

“I know why you two have been have been feeling under the weather—if you get my meaning—and I also know you’ll be all better soon, but first you have to watch this video. Don’t look away, don’t close your eyes, and don’t turn the sound off. If you do I will know, and you will puke blood one more time before you die.” The message said nothing more.

They didn’t say anything for a while.

“Isn’t he supposed to be human now?” Dean grumbled at last, “Since when can he put a whammy this bad on us?”

“Must’ve teamed up with a witch or something.” Sam’s words were a tired sigh. 

“Think he’s bluffing?”

“Think we can risk it? And, I mean, it’s a video; it’s not like it can do anything to us.”

“Is that a line from The Ring?”

“I’ll take The Ring over this.”

“...yeah.”

That settled, Sam opened the attachment. It took ages to load. When it did, they followed Metatron’s instructions, never looking away, never closing their eyes, and leaving the volume at full blast the entire time.

* * *

They tried to pretend they didn’t know when Cas got back—when _he_ tried to act like it never happened—but he got suspicious when they were neither surprised nor upset enough about losing the demon tablet again. Sam broke down and told him what Metatron had done and his reaction was so bad Dean halfway wished they’d all just kept lying and pretending to believe each other forever. For days he wouldn’t talk to them, just ignored them until they went away whenever they tried. He never left the bunker either, so at least there was plenty of opportunity to try. Sam never stopped nagging him at regular intervals, but before long Dean gave up. He got it. Knowing that they knew, that they could never un-see what they’d seen, had to feel like the worst part of the whole thing to Cas right now, and it was the part that would never be over. The part he’d be reminded of every time he saw their faces.

Dean had thought he hated Metatron as much as he could hate anything when he watched his video, but he hated him a lot more now, now that he realized he’d made him and Sam a part of what he’d done to Cas, forced them to be accomplices in a way they could never take back. He hadn’t wanted to kill this bad since having the Mark—hell, even the Mark had never sustained this level of cold fury for more than an hour or two, as opposed to the days he’d spent dully aware of the building pressure—but of course Metatron had to take that away too. If it was just his own ass on the line Dean wouldn’t even care, but he wasn’t about to let Sam go down with him and God only knew what them taking the curse back on would do to Cas’s head.

So he hit the books, hard. There was always some kind of loophole for these things and he was gonna find it if he had to read the entire Men of Letters library. Sam helped, and after a few days of research they found a counter for spells like the one Metatron had used and cast it, thus preventing a relapse in case he died or tried casting the same curse again.

When they told Cas they were careful to only refer to “the curse we were under,” never saying Metatron’s name.

“Good,” he’d whispered. It was the first time they’d heard his voice since he’d shut them out. He didn’t say anything else.

“‘Good’?” Dean muttered to Sam later when they were alone, “That’s it?”

“It’s more than we’ve gotten for days,” Sam pointed out, “What more do you want?”

“I dunno, how about, ‘Good, let’s go gank the bastard now there’s nothing stopping us’?”

“What, he doesn’t even _talk_ right now and you think he should be ready to go on a hunt just because we cast a spell?”

“I’m not talking about a _hunt_ here, Sam.”

“Yeah, you’re talking about something way bigger. It’s barely been a week, Dean. You have to give him time. This is gonna be a struggle, but we have to get him talking again, y’know?”

“Yeah,” said Dean with a deep sigh, fists clenching absent-mindedly.

“Besides,” Sam’s eyes darkened, “We’ll need time to track down Metatron anyway.”

“What?”

“Yesterday he moved out of his apartment and just... went off the grid.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You think you’re the only one who wants to kill him? I’ve been keeping tabs on him ever since... last week, but he must’ve known we might come for him and decided to disappear.”

“ _Son of a bitch_ ,” Dean hissed.

“Hey,” said Sam, “We’re _going_ to find him, okay? And then, once Cas is ready...”

Dean nodded, feeling the heat of anger dissipate back into the cold that’d held his bones for days. He could wait.

* * *

He couldn’t wait any longer.

In the days following his talk with Sam he’d started to think that finding Metatron would be the problem, that Cas would be ready before they were. He’d started talking to them again, if only about dumb, casual things like confusing commercials he’d seen on TV or what they’d had for breakfast. He went a while longer where he’d still have trouble looking at them but even that he seemed to be getting over pretty quickly. He was all but back to normal as long as their conversations avoided certain topics, and even when they didn’t he wouldn’t shut them out completely.

At first Dean thought this meant Cas was close to ready, but whenever they’d bring up getting revenge he never responded well, recoiling at the idea of ever laying eyes on Metatron again, resenting them for so much as mentioning him. They’d hoped he’d come around once he had time to get used to the idea, but bringing it up again never yielded a more positive result than it ever had before. The last time he tried to start the conversation, Cas ended it with something _weird_ :

“Dean, do you know how old I am?” he’d asked hollowly, eyes distant.

“...few millenniums, right? Don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Then perhaps I’m finally old enough to learn forgiveness.”

Dean couldn’t begin to guess what Cas really meant by that. Did he say it out of bitterness? Was it a new excuse to try to forget Metatron entirely? Whatever he meant, Sam had decided to take the statement at face value—or at least act like he did—and stopped talking about revenge, even when it was just the two of them and Cas was off somewhere else in the bunker.

Well, fine, then. Whatever. If Cas didn’t wanna hear about it right now—or even forever—then Dean just wouldn’t tell him. Sam he _would_ have to tell at some point, and when he did he’d be pissed that Dean did this without him, but neither of them felt like it was okay to leave Cas by himself in the bunker yet and there was no way Dean was going to put this off any longer.

He’d found Metatron.

The classic cyberstalking techniques hadn’t turned up much, so he and Sam both took up researching tracking spells in their free time. When even that moved at a snail’s pace Dean got impatient and started hitting the books he knew Sam wouldn’t. (Or at least wouldn’t until he’d wasted weeks trying everything else.) There were parts of the Men of Letters library that were way more Cuthbert Sinclair than Henry Winchester, after all, and even though they normally regarded those regions as Last Resort Land, you couldn’t say a look through those books wouldn’t get you results. And he got results. He had to eat a bloodhound’s heart, but the tracking spell worked, and the minute he knew where Metatron was he also knew tonight was the night.

He’d left a vague note, driven the five hours out to the crappy little motel in the crappy little town where Metatron was holed up, broken into his room to find him out on some errand or other, and waited. And then Metatron got back. And then the fun began.

Finally reaching this moment, _finally_ having the son of a bitch pinned to the ground—trembling and twitching beneath him as he squeezed the breath from his throat—felt so damn good he just might have to change pants after.

“Go ahead,” Dean whispered, “Struggle. It’ll make the scene hotter.”


End file.
